


Christmas Spirit

by Redlance



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 13:16:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5418467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redlance/pseuds/Redlance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beca's no Scrooge, she doesn't hate Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Spirit

* * *

Chloe is the kind of person that people who hate Christmas write scathing blog posts about. She's the girl dying to put up decorations before Thanksgiving and she's the girl wearing a Santa hat the second December first rolls around. She's the girl who sings carols and beloved chart favourites while baking actual, honest-to-God gingerbread people that the rest of them try to snag when she isn't looking. Of course, she's **always** looking, or she seems to always somehow know when one of them is about to try their luck and they usually get a slap to the hand for their efforts.

 

She is, for lack of a better word, jolly. Downright merry, in fact, and that had been something Beca had definitely had to adjust to.

 

Beca's no Scrooge, she doesn't hate Christmas. She likes the lights, the drop in temperature, even some of the music, it's just that, even with all the 'good' and 'fine' things the season brings, it also drags some pretty unpleasant memories along with it. After her dad split, she and her mom hadn't celebrated it like they once used to, so the holiday had soured and dulled over the years. And though she's no longer an angst-ridden teenager wallowing in the icy waters borne from the tears that flow from the door of a broken home, she still remembers that girl. Remembers how she felt, how angry and sad, how lonely she'd been. Christmas brought back some of the worst of those memories and try as she might, Beca wasn't always strong enough to shove them back into the over-crowded closet from whence they came.

 

So, to have someone so ecstatically enthusiastic about Christmas had, admittedly, thrown her at first. It wasn't as if the rest of the Bellas weren't excited too, but Chloe was practically **glowing** with holiday cheer and really the only person who could rival her in that aspect was Fat Amy. The Tasmanian literally had an entire wardrobe's worth of Christmas outfits, including those silly headbands with antlers on them and a bathrobe fit for the fat man himself. And so it is from Amy, Beca assumes, that Chloe retrieves the monstrosity that is currently perched atop her head.

 

The headband itself is striped with candy cane colours, as is the thin tubing that sticks up out from the centre and then curves after a few inches. Attached to the opposite end is a sprig of plastic mistletoe that bobs comically up and down whenever Chloe walks or moves, or breathes. It **should** look ridiculous.

 

But perhaps monstrosity is too strong a word, because it is, undeniably, pretty adorable. The fact that Beca wouldn't dream of saying that aloud – okay, so she might **dream** about it – doesn't diminish the truth of it, but then Chloe can pull off just about anything. A garbage bag in a rainstorm? No problem, she'll look drenched and fabulous. It's like some superhuman ability, Beca thinks, and it allows Chloe to walk around campus wearing a ridiculous headband and a smile that stretches from ear to ear.

 

Beca hadn't actually believed Chloe was going to leave the Bella house wearing it at first and she'd said as much. Later though, she wonders whether or not her words had been taken as some kind of challenge, because she's almost certain Chloe doesn't take the damn thing off all day. Every time Beca sees her – which seems to be strangely frequently given the size of the campus – there it is. Mistletoe dangling three or four inches from her forehead as she presses a kiss to Benji's cheek in the middle of the quad. Beca doesn't think she's ever seen anyone turn quite that shade of red before. He was almost purple by the time Chloe had walked away. That morning, Chloe had gotten similar kisses from Jessica, Ashley and Flo, and one peck on the lips from Cynthia Rose. At lunch time, Beca and Emily meet up with her in the cafeteria and Emily is more than happy to indulge the redhead.

 

“That,” she'd said, grin so wide she was hardly containing it, “is brilliant.” And Beca had rolled her eyes as they took turns kissing each other's cheek.

 

“Sure. Walking around kissing random people when you have **no** idea where they or their mouths have been, is totally, totally brilliant.”

 

“It's tradition,” Emily points out, somewhat timidly, and Chloe flashes a winning smile at her before attempting to scowl at Beca.

 

“Exactly. It's not a big deal.” Chloe lifts her shoulders in a shrug and wrinkles her nose. “Just some harmless fun.” And then Beca's being given that look, the one Chloe uses to get her way with everyone, and she wastes no time pointing her plastic fork at the redhead in the most threatening manner she can muster.

 

“I don't **do** mistletoe kisses.” Her warning had, she thought, been made quite clear in her tone, but Chloe had only winked in reply, then taken her seat again, and that had left a rather uneasy feeling rolling around in the pit of Beca's stomach. A feeling that she'd then had to carry around with her for the rest of the day and try to ignore the way it kept prompting her to look over her shoulder, half expected Chloe to be there trying to sneak up on her.

 

The fact that she is mildly disappointed that this is something that fails to transpire by the time she returns home late that afternoon does not manage to escape her, even if she is actively trying to avoid it. It also doesn't change the fact that she dances around Chloe's playful advances when the redhead arrives home a half hour later and finds Beca fixing herself a pre-dinner snack in the kitchen.

 

“Come on, Becs!” Chloe's whine is playful too, and she tries to pout but the strength of her smile won't allow it. Beca puts herself on the opposite side of the kitchen table, far out of reach. “What's the big deal? It's just one itty, bitty kiss.” Beca gestures to her, a wave of her hand that suggests Chloe has just negated her own argument.

 

“Exactly. So, you won't mind if I just skip this whole part of Christmas tradition.”

 

“What tradition are we skipping?” The question comes from Stacie – clad in shorts so skimpy, Beca wouldn't wear them in the summer, let alone now – who swings herself into the kitchen off of the door frame and lights up like a Christmas tree when Chloe turns to acknowledge her. Her mouth stretches into a wide, impish smile and she practically skips forward, kicking one long, bare leg up behind her in her excitement. “Mistletoe!” She elongates the word into a melody and Chloe turns to face her properly. Beca rolls her eyes and inches around the side of the table, ready and willing to take the momentary distraction as a means to make her escape as Stacie reaches out to Chloe with both hands. “C'mere, Red.” Only instead of grabbing her cheeks as Beca had been expecting, Stacie's arms actually go **around** the redhead, twirling and dipping her like they're in a Gene Kelly movie. Chloe lets out a small explosion of surprised laughter and then Stacie arcs her upper body just enough to press her lips to Chloe's.

 

And Beca knows that this is her moment to make a break for it. To just slip between them and the couch and disappear upstairs. She knows that, but she doesn't move. Because what should have been a small window of opportunity still hadn't ended after the anticipated three second stretch and now Chloe's hand is slowly, absently drifting to Stacie's cheek.

 

Transfixed might be the best word to describe Beca's current state. Utterly unable to move a single muscle beyond the ones that control her mouth, and those are uselessly raising and dropping her lower lip as if readying her to say something. Which, of course, never amounts to anything, and then Stacie is straightening – after a small eternity, Beca thinks – and swinging Chloe back around. She lets go of the redhead, who presses the tips of her fingers to her mouth, pushing down against the smile that's starting to form until it turns into a giggle that puffs out cheeks turned the same shade as her hair. Stacie takes a deep breath and then lets it out in a slow, satisfied stream, resting her hands on her hips. She looks to Beca then, lifting her eyebrows.

 

“Mistletoe is the **best** Christmas tradition. I don't know **why** you'd want to skip it, it's a free pass to get your mack on.” Stacie actually looks and sounds somewhat personally offended, and she huffs her disappointment before turning, grabbing a piece of fruit from the kitchen counter, and leaving the room with a cheery, “Chloe, always a pleasure.” Beca stares after her for a long moment, until Chloe's sputtering giggles grab her attention. The other woman's face is almost the same colour as Benji's had been and her bright blue eyes are big and glistening in a way that only ones filled with tears brought on by laughter can. Lips pulled back over her teeth in a grin that screams 'I have no idea what just happened but it was awesome', Chloe takes her hand from her mouth and reaches up to adjust the headband back into its proper position.

 

“See,” she says, her laughter dwindling but grin still going strong, “no big deal.” Beca can't think of one single thing to say in response to that.

 

 

It's not until further into the evening that she realises her response didn't have to be verbal.

 

That, if she'd paused to think about it **then** – like she is **now** – she would have maybe realised that she didn't particularly **want** to give any kind of verbal reply.

 

But she still wants to use her mouth to deliver it.

 

It's not a new revelation. It is, after all, part of the reason she'd been so arduously avoiding the redhead and her festive freeness; because she **wants** to kiss her.

 

It had made sense to Beca at the time.

 

Now though, sitting at her desk and staring mindlessly at the handful of programs she has open on her laptop, all of which have merged into one out of focus mess, it doesn't make so much sense anymore. Because this, as Jesse might put it, had been her golden opportunity and he would, she knows, slap her silly if he found out she'd squandered it.

 

Only maybe she hasn't. Maybe, if she were to venture down into the lower levels of the house, she would find Chloe still wearing the headband. Maybe she could nonchalantly wander into Chloe's field of vision and maybe Chloe would make one final attempt, and **maybe** Beca would roll her eyes with a little less exasperation this time. And maybe this could all potentially happen, if she'd stop trying to chew a hole in her lip and actually get up.

 

She spends the next ten minutes psyching herself up so much that she almost psyches herself **out** , but manages to more or less throw herself into a standing position after taking enough deep breaths to make her dizzy. Then she's forcing herself to the staircase before she can think about it, heart pounding louder than her feet.

 

“Whoa there, Speedy Gee.” She narrowly avoids running straight into Amy halfway down only because Amy has the foresight to catch her, hands at Beca's shoulders, holding her back as well as upright. “Where you off to in such a hurry?” Beca blinks owlishly at her.

 

“What?” She asks, after a moment too long, face slack and mouth small. “No. I'm not,” there's a semi-frantic shake of her head and then, “I'm not like, hurrying. Anywhere.”

 

“Ooookay,” Amy drawls, patting Beca's head like she's suddenly devolved – evolved, depending on who you ask – into a basset hound. “You go right on **not** hurrying then.” And Amy gently ushers her over to one side so that she can slip past. Beca spends a few seconds collecting herself and then takes the last couple of steps at a normal, human pace.

 

“Oh hey, Becs.” The voice belongs to the person she's searching for and she turns in the direction of it to find Chloe leaning against the kitchen counter, an open binder balanced between her hands and a distinct lack of mistletoe bouncing in front of her forehead.

 

Beca doesn't think she's ever felt this kind of disappointment in connection with Chloe before.

 

“Yeah,” she breathes, trying to keep her tone light, “what's up?” And it's three damn words, but Chloe tilts her head like she knows something is wrong. It sets off a number of alarm bells for Beca who, spying the decal on the front of the binder, opts for distraction over letting Chloe ask the question she can see forming on her lips. “You looking for a way to incorporate Christmas into our outfits?” Chloe smiles, looking down as she flips the page over and Beca catches a glimpse of the infamous Bella flight attendant costumes.

 

“No,” she admonishes, “I'm looking over the evolution of the Bella style.” It sounds so hoity-toity that Beca chuckles quietly as she leans against the door jam. “I think we should go simple at Worlds. Bring it back to our roots, you know?” Beca nods but narrows her eyes.

 

“Wouldn't, like, flapper dresses or something be the roots?” Chloe laughs at the question and snaps the binder closed, making Beca jump.

 

“ **Our** roots, Beca.” She wrinkles her nose, her blue-eyed gaze heavy on the brunette as she gestures between the two of them. “The ones you planted. The ones that made us who we are; the new Bellas. The best Bellas.”

 

“That wasn't all me,” Beca automatically argues, “you know that. The girls, **you**.” She shrugs. “If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be here at all.” At that, Chloe's face transforms. But only in the sense that it doesn't actually change, but rather brightens. Glows. With happiness, pride and affection; a fondness that makes Beca's stomach hurt.

 

“I know a good thing when I see it,” Chloe admits, mouth twisting into a smirk as she leans forward to conspiratorially whisper, “especially when that thing is naked.” Before biting her lip.

 

“Have you started early on the eggnog?” Blushing, Beca starts backing out of the kitchen.

 

“Oh, I don't need to be drunk to remember that,” Chloe says, lifting a hand to tap her index finger against the side of her head. “It's all in here.” It's not what Beca meant and she knows that Chloe knows that isn't what she meant, but instead of calling her on it, Beca just rolls her eyes.

 

“Okay, well,” she pauses awkwardly in the doorway, rubbing at the back of her neck with her hand, “you have fun with that.” Then she sidesteps out of sight and presses her forehead against the wall, screwing her eyes shut. Maybe this was for the best. Maybe it was a sign. Some higher power telling her not to make a complete fool out of herself, just this once.

 

“Not that I'm not relishing every moment, waiting to see how long you can go before you crack,” Beca turns so quickly at the hushed voice that she almost throws herself to the opposite wall, “but I’m getting pretty tired of pretending I don't know about you and your toner.” She clutches at her chest as Amy cocks her head and regards Beca with something akin to sympathy from where she's sitting on the stairs. Only it's the kind of sympathy that seems just a touch insincere and a more, sort of, mocking and it makes Beca feel smaller than she already is.

 

“What are you talking about?” She barks in a harsh whisper, agitation leaking into her words and winding around her posture. “And why are you being creepy?”

 

“Uh, excuse me,” Amy holds her hands up, palms flat and facing Beca, “I'm not the one trying to sneak a Crimbo kiss from my bezzie just to stave off the burning in my loins for one more lonely night.” Beca blinks at her, heart in her throat.

 

“I have zero idea what ninety percent of that meant.”

 

“You and Chloe,” Amy hisses, but Beca flinches and sends her gaze to the kitchen doorway despite the low tone she's using, “and how you want to make her your Christmas cracker.”

 

“That's not a thing,” Beca snaps back, then points a finger at Amy as she amends, “ **neither** of those things are things.” Amy slyly slides her gaze away from Beca, shifting her lips until she's talking, almost singing, out of the corner of her mouth.

 

“But you want her to be.” And if Beca were a cartoon character, her face would be an actual tomato and steam would be coming out of her ears. She opens her mouth to unleash on Amy again, but the blonde has dropped one hand now, leaving the other hanging, and Beca watches as Amy curls her fingers in, then her thumb over those, and wags her pointer from side to side. The motion stuns Beca into silence long enough for Amy to retrieve whatever she's digging around for in the front pocket of her hoodie. “And since I'm your actual, top of the list, best friend for life,” with a gentle tug, Amy frees the item, “I figure it's about time I step in and help you out.” And she holds it out for Beca, twirling it between her fingers. “Just consider me your own personal Christmas fairy.”

 

It's a sprig of mistletoe. A little bent from being stuffed into the pocket and obviously plastic, and it's being offered to her like a tiny Christmas miracle by a crocodile-wrestling Tasmanian. Who apparently knows all about Beca's, ugh, toner. The idea that she's that transparent has her momentarily frozen with fear, because if Amy knows, then who else does? Does Chloe?

 

“You know,” Amy whispers, levering herself up by way of the banister and taking a step towards Beca, “you actually have to take it if you're going to use it.” But Beca still can't move.

 

“I don't think I can.” There's an unexpected, child-like fear to her voice and her wide eyes search Amy's for a long moment, looking for that earlier sympathy.

 

“Beca,” she does not find it, “if you don't go in there and plant one on Big Red, I’m going to march in and spill your guts for you.” She punctuates her threat by smacking the mistletoe against Beca's forehead with a bright smile, then grabs the brunette's hand and forces the fancy piece of plastic into it. “Your choice. Although I feel it's my duty to remind you that,” Amy pauses to purse her lips, “I do have a tendency to be a bit vulgar at times.”

 

“Why are you doing this to me?” It's quiet and it's weak, and Beca genuinely wants to know. As the walls of the hallway feel like they're closing in and it's getting harder and harder to breath through the cloying panic trying to suffocate her. Amy pats her hands against Beca's cheeks.

 

“Because if I don't stop you, you're just going to keep on falling with nowhere to land.” Amy's smile is knowing and Beca lets out a heavy, shaky sigh. “Besides,” Amy takes her hands back and places them against her own stomach, “no one in this house has got padding like mine. Comfortable **and** sexy.” She flashes a wink and Beca huffs a laugh as she hangs her head, staring down at the mistletoe in her hand.

 

There's an avalanche of uncertainty crashing through her, knocking everything off kilter and doing its best to try and freeze her out. But there's a tiny, little snowboarder of hope riding her way down the frigid white waves, screaming at the top of her lungs for Beca to take a risk. It's that, compiled with Amy physically pushing her towards the kitchen, which finally convinces her feet to start moving again.

 

Chloe, she sees, has moved. Now sitting on the bench on the far side of the kitchen table, the binder she'd been holding is laid out flat against the surface and she's got her cheek pressed against her fist as she flips through the pages. Halting in the doorway, Beca's upper body jerks and twitches in two different directions as she tries to decide on a course of action, which only results in her not making any kind of decision at all, and then it's too late. Chloe's seen her or sensed her, or something, and she's lifting her attention from the binder to flash Beca – who quickly shoves the mistletoe into her back pocket – a warm smile. She doesn't say anything though, just holds her gaze for a moment that's long enough for Beca to really take in just how blue Chloe's eyes are – so blue that they actually cease being blue and become something else entirely, something utterly unnameable – and how she can say so much with her mouth alone, without saying a word.

 

Beca blinks and when her eyes refocus, Chloe's looking back down at the pages and pages of fashion inspiration that has been passed down from captain to captain since the binder's inception. There's a lot in there, from photographs of by-gone Bellas, to magazine cut-outs, to actual strips of fabric, and Beca hadn't know what to do with any of it. She's not really a fashion kind of chick, and so she'd gladly handed that responsibility over to Chloe the first chance she got. That had been a few years ago now.

 

Years.

 

Plural.

 

She was only supposed to be here for **one**.

 

And the fact that that initial plan had been quite extravagantly flushed down the drain had, well, sort of everything to do with the woman sitting on the far side of the kitchen table. Actually, Chloe has her hand in most aspects of Beca's life. A life that is now packed so full of things relating to a holiday that Beca had mostly associated with crappy feelings until Chloe had come along. And there are a lot of things Chloe brought with her, brought to Beca, not the least of which being a desire to use the mistletoe tucked into her pants.

 

 _Screw it_ , she thinks, throwing her uncertain caution to the wind just before she feels a hand against her shoulder blades, roughly shoving her forward. She doesn't even bother to look back, just lets the momentum propel her across the small kitchen and around the side of the table. Chloe looks up at her again, still silent, still smiling, eyebrows lifted in a wordless question that Beca has no intentions of answering. In fact, what she's about to do will probably only cause the conception of further questions, but she'll cross – or totally avoid – that bridge when she comes to it.

 

“Don't freak out,” Beca breathes, reaching around with her hand until she can coil her fingers around the green plastic stem and pull it free. Chloe's gaze doesn't falter, doesn't slip, until Beca's holding the mistletoe between them and only then does Chloe glance down. Almost immediately, her eyes snap back to Beca's. “It's not a big deal.” She echoes the words minus their earlier sentiment, because while Chloe had actually meant it when she said it, this **is** kind of a really big deal for Beca. But Chloe doesn't necessarily need to know that.

 

She's thankful that Chloe is sitting because it makes her the taller of the two of them for once and gives her a measure of control, not that she utilizes it. Rather than confidently brandishing the veritable Christmas weed above their heads and leaning in for an equally confident, but utterly chaste – she isn't about to push her luck – kiss, she only gets her arm halfway into position before second guessing herself. Then it stutters back and forth in the air, almost lowering completely as she twists her face into a grimace and opens her mouth to speak.

 

“For the love of Kylie,” Fat Amy erupts, making Beca jump about a foot in the air. She's standing in the doorway, gesturing wildly towards them. “Just pash her and get it over with, Mitchell. I'm not getting any younger over here.” Mortified and with her mouth still hanging open, Beca blinks and lets her head loll back so that she's facing Chloe.

 

Who's still just smiling.

 

Beca takes that as her go ahead.

 

This time, she gets the mistletoe all the way up on the first try and even manages to hold it steady as she ducks her head and presses her lips to Chloe's. There's a rush of heat that swells in her chest and spreads to her face, making her light-headed and dizzy. The kiss is short, unobtrusive, but firm, and it leaves Beca's lips feeling electric when she pulls back. Like she's just kissed a wall socket. She straightens, opening her eyes in time to watch Chloe do the same, and for a handful of seconds neither one does or says a thing beyond Beca dropping her hand back to her side like it's suddenly made of concrete.

 

Then, just as Beca's about to “uuuh” herself out of the room, Chloe's smile returns full-force. So wide that it makes her eyes crinkle at their corners and it's accompanied by a short burst of laughter that gives Beca heart palpitations.

 

“What was **that**?” Chloe curls her fingers around the edge of the table and pulls herself around so that she's sitting on the very end of the bench, almost brushing Beca's legs with her knees. Beca swallows, taking a tiny step backwards and glancing quickly down at the mistletoe in her hand.

 

“Uh,” as if to explain, she holds it up again, twirling it between her fingers like Amy had while her other hand goes to her hair, nervously tucking it behind her ear, “just, like,” she blows out a breath hard enough to make her lips vibrate, “a kiss?”

 

“Oh, no. **Stacie** kissed me.” In a flash, Chloe is standing, causing Beca to stumble backward again. “If **you** are going to suddenly start kissing me, well,” the redhead reaches out with both hands, hooking her fingers through Beca's belt loops and tugging her forward again, “I expect you to do better than that.” Hands curved around Chloe's hips, heart swinging wildly back and forth between her stomach and throat, Beca has been left with enough brain power to acknowledge the fact that Chloe's fingers are sliding into her hair. “Come on,” and they're close enough that Chloe's reduced to a breath and a blur, “plant one on me.” And so they're probably close enough for Chloe to actually **feel** the heat from Beca's rapidly reddening face.

 

“You heard, huh?” From beneath hooded lids, Beca watches Chloe's mouth shift into a smirk.

 

“You were literally ten feet away from me.”

 

“I thought we were being quiet.” Chloe hums and Beca's eyes slip shut as their noses touch.

 

“Not quiet enough.” Mistletoe forgotten, Chloe closes the gap between them.

 

* * *

 

You know how Christmas is sometimes more like a **feeling** than it is anything else? How you can put up lights and watch Home Alone for the sixtieth time, but not really find the Christmas spirit until you **feel** it?

 

That moment, there in the kitchen of the Bella house, solidifies the Christmas feeling for Beca. So much so that Christmas stops being about bad memories Beca doesn't want to relive and instantly becomes about how she wants to make new ones, better ones, with Chloe. And every year, all Beca has to do is look over at the redhead to feel **it**. That spark, that magic.

 

Chloe is the embodiment of Christmas.

 

And Beca finds that she really, really loves Christmas. 


End file.
